


Señorita (NSFW)

by eratothemuse



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Arguing, F/M, Mutual Pining, NSFW, Unprotected Sex, age gap, idiots in love who won't admit it, not safe for work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: "You say we’re just friends, but friends don’t know the way you taste.”You didn’t know what you and Javier Peña are, but you do know that it’s definitely not just friends.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 132





	Señorita (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Whoops, my hand slipped. Blame Camila Cabello.

##  _**Señorita (NSFW)** _

Gif source: [Here](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/190507530742)

* * *

You had been doing so well at keeping your cool. Keeping up the act like nothing was going on, like there were no feelings simmering within you, bubbling like a too-hot pot on a stove, threatening to spill over. You had thought yourself having mastered it, smothered your feelings down deep, up until they suddenly weren’t anymore.

It was three weeks ago, with his grip harsh at your arm and entirely too close, a fiery, _“¡No te vayas, señorita!”_ breathed hard against your lips, that the combination of the hot-headedness and the alcohol in your veins blurred the lines between your professionalism and his passion. “We are not through talking about this!”

It doesn’t take much effort to wrench your arm from his grip, but you don’t back away from him as the night air shifts his dark hair, but is too hot in itself to cool your own anger, “Did Carillo tell you to come get me?” At his silence, you bite, “You are not my superior, Peña! You don’t get to pull me out like that! I know what I’m doing!”

Peña’s jaw clenches, and you see his own fire in his eyes, but he has the sense to take a glance to his side, before reaching to drag you by your arm and into the small crevice of the alleyway, away from the prying eyes and ears of the crowd further down the street, near the club he had pulled you from. Still, though, the music reaches your ears, and reminds you of how close you had been to getting some real information out of one of Escobar’s lieutenants.

 _“No creo que entiendas, señorita,”_ the usually teasing nickname has turned cold and condescending as he chastises, but you don’t try and escape from his grip as he drags you closer towards the truck you had parked there, and lowers his voice between you, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? That’s where you’re headed, going up like that, and baiting the hook. You were only supposed to observe him!”

“He’s never even seen me before,” you glare, “and he was so drunk that he was ready to brag to anyone who would listen. I just took advantage of the opportunity!”

“It’s stupid! Did you even think?” his words are scolding, so your next ones are just as much so.

“You get to screw around with anything on two legs for information, but then want to preach to me about how flirting with Hernández for intel is wrong?” the scoff that comes from the back of your throat is guttural with your annoyance at his double-standard.

“It’s not about that!”

“What, then?”

Peña looks like you slapped him, for a hot second, as you breathed hard between against the side of the truck you found yourself against. The air was thick, with more than just the heat lingering on the asphalt in the wake of a sweltering day, tension biting on the heels of his unsaid words. Words he couldn’t dare say, as your glare meets his own with heated expectation.

And he’s so damn close, that you can feel his own heavy breathing, hear the thunder of your heart in your chest and the warmth of his own. He’s got you so mad that you can barely think straight, but even with your anger is the slight twist in your gut, the hint of arousal in your veins, and it’s harder than it usually is to keep yourself from noticing how attractive he is, even when you’re as mad at him as you are.

Shaking your head, you’re desperate to escape the closeness of him, both to free yourself from the scrutiny of his dark eyes and the warmth flooding your soul, but it’s so much easier to blame it on your frustration as you dismiss, _“Olvídalo.”_

When you made to push him away, intent on calling the operation a bust and heading home, he dipped his head the few final inches, and caught your lips with his own.

_The water finally boiled over._

The first time you met Javier Peña, you remember thinking him abrasive. Rude, even. Leant over his desk, he barely spared a glance and a gruff word as Murphy introduced you. They were busy; too busy to orient a new agent fresh from the States, and right in the heat of what would become one of the biggest interceptions of Escobar’s routes in the past year. Back then, though, when they pushed you to desk work, filing you away like paperwork for the week, all you could manage to begrudgingly think was, _I came down here for this?_

You worked your ass off for five years to become a respected DEA agent and get sent here to take the fight to the Narcos. Desk work was not your idea of the war on drugs that you’d been sent to wage. You were young, and more than a little wet behind the ears, regardless of how much you thought you knew at the time.

Then, right before the bust itself, Peña strolled up to your desk, calling your attention to the bulletproof vest in his hand as he nods his head, _“¿Señorita, vienes o no?”_

It had stunned you for just enough time to earn a raise of his brow and a quirk to his lips when you stammer, reaching for the vest, “Yeah, of course I’m coming!”

“Let’s go, then.”

You’re strapping yourself in mid-stride, but even in your rush beside him, you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on your ass before he follows in your climb into the truck which, at the time, was just another thing to hold against the older man. His reputation had preceded him, even in the short amount of time spent listening to the gossip around the offices, and you had never liked players.

Whispers of, _“Es un mujeriego,”_ had already met your ears by then, so why you had warmed up to him so easily over these past few months was still a mystery.

Peña had gotten under your skin, something you couldn’t easily shake, and the longer it went on, the more you worried that you would be unable to recover from the thrum in your chest, or the feelings stirring your gut. Months of work spent practically nestled between him and Steve as you built a case against the cartel, had shown you a different side to the man than what was rumored.

He was every bit a player as they said, but he was also what they did not say. He was a good agent, and far too damn heroic for his own good, not that you’d ever give him the satisfaction of knowing you thought it. Both him and Steve had years of experience on you, and you easily learned more in the months with them than in the preceding two years spent working in Virginia.

For all of those reasons, you found yourself warming to Javier Peña, but you knew better than to compromise your position in Columbia or the DEA over some silly crush. You could control yourself. Burying your own desires was a long-standing tradition that you had no intention of breaking anytime soon, and throwing yourself into your work was all you knew how to do.

Which is why it was so blindsiding that you found yourself in the position you were now in. You were completely caught off-guard, not only by the way he had kissed you that night, but also by yourself. This was unlike you, but you couldn’t stop.

One time led to another, and each time you had yourself convinced it would be the last time, murmuring over and over against his lips, _“This is it, Javi,”_ only to be proven wrong when it wasn’t; too damn proud to ask him just what the hell you were doing together.

As for Javier?

Well, he was too content with letting you think that you had this under control, _“Lo que quieras, señorita.”_

Truth was, neither one of you did.

“We’re just friends,” Peña was a good liar, but Murphy wasn’t buying it, not even with the innocent, wide-eyed stare he was feeding him.

“Yeah, sure, man,” Steve chuckles, taking another swig of his beer before adding, “I’m just saying, keeping it in-office is risky. What happens when things go south?”

“I’m serious,” Peña insists, poker face good as ever as Steve studies him with an unconvinced brow, repeating, “we’re _just friends_.”

But a friend wouldn’t be at your door so late, or want the taste of you on his tongue. Before whatever this was started, when he felt the itch he was having right now, it was easy to scratch, and, logically, he knows he’s playing with fire just as much as you are.

There’s plenty of places he could be instead of here. Plenty of more uncomplicated women. But it’s near two in the morning, and all he can think about is you.

He hears the bolt in the lock, the scrape of metal as you creak the door open, and he relishes in the sound of the soft, questioning sound of his name on your lips, “Javi?” The door opens further, and you get as good a look at him as he gets of you in that soft silk robe he’s pulled from your body time and time before, him in a leather jacket that serves just as much purpose as the fabric on your shoulders right now. You already know the answer when you ask, “What are you doing here?”

You’re so ready to tell him _no_. Practiced it in the mirror for the last two days. You even refused when Murphy asked you if you wanted to bar-hop with them tonight. Keeping him compartmentalized to work only had kept you from the phone, only to earn you him at your door.

Javier’s leaning on your doorframe, voice just as soft as yours with his soft admission, “Was thinking about you, _señorita_.”

And you have yourself fooled that you haven’t fallen for him, but in reality, you’re a goner already. A tragedy, waiting to happen.

He stands straight, only to lean in, shoulders blocking you from closing the door in his face, “I’ve missed you.”

You can smell the whiskey on his breath, “You just saw me today, Peña.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he licks his lips, laying his hand warm on the side of your cheek, and asks too sweetly, “Can I come in?”

God forgive you, you’re leaning into him, breathing him in, all smoke and whiskey, muddling your brain and fuzzing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you want to say yes.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you whisper, if only to keep your voice steady, but it falters when you try to convince the both of you, “I meant it when I said that last time was the last time, Javi.”

 _“No quiero que esto termine,”_ he rests his head against yours, and he’s as tempting as the devil when he urges, _“Por favor, hermosa, una vez más.”_ You like to think yourself a strong woman, but when it came to him, you hated to admit how weak you were. His lips brush yours, as he tries one last time, and your name never sounded so good on his tongue, “Let me in.”

In the span of two words, you seal your fate, _“Una vez.”_

It’s all he needs to pull you flush against him, thumb tracing circles along your jaw as he kisses you, walking you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him, familiar, because this isn’t the first time he’s had his way like this. Your body is more eager than your words, fingers brushing his jacket from his shoulders before carding into his brown hair, tugging, pulling, urging him as close as he can get.

You bump into the small table just inside your entryway, contents jingling, but you hardly care if any of it falls before he presses you against the wall right beside it.

He’s breathing hard, breaking the kiss just to look between you and tug at the tie of the robe that was already doing a poor job of hiding your chest from him, slipping open to allow him the flesh of your hips.

“Javi,” you moan softly, head hitting the wall as it lulls back to let him have the access to your neck his lips are searching for. His mustache tickles, blazes along your skin, and the stubble surrounding it lights you on fire. A striker to a match, and you’re burning up with your need for him.

In moments like these, you talk about as much as you will after. Talking only complicated things, and it was so much easier to keep your feelings bottled up if you could keep them from falling from your tongue.

But call it the alcohol in his system, or the small taste he’s gotten over the past few days of what it’s like without _this_ , he’s talkative tonight.

 _“Te necesito,”_ he sounds so desperate, that you let yourself believe him, if only for right now. _“¿Todavía me necesitas?”_ You swallow hard, close your eyes to keep yourself from getting lost in his eyes, but his lips taste your own in the span of your pause, and his hands push at the tiny shorts along your hips.

It’s as much of the truth as you’ll admit to, confessed at the altar of his lips, and you hope he doesn’t realize the weight of it _, “Sí, Javi. Sí.”_

Maybe, you’ll be able to go back to pretending in the morning.

You don’t think anymore, past the buttons against your fingertips, and the brush of his hands along your skin, hoisting your thigh to catch at his hip while you free him of his shirt. Your cotton panties are lost on the floor, and you know you’re not getting any further than the entryway, this time.

The soft pink cotton of your tank top is pushed up, exposed along your stomach by his fingers splayed there, as his tongue kisses your neck and he grinds you against the wall and the hardened length of his jeans. You moan at the drag of your clit and his hips at your own, hearing his own groan in the impatience that has left you grinding against each other like this.

Faintly, in the back of your mind, you manage to think how your front door isn’t even locked, but when his fingertips find the wetness between your legs, any other thought is scrambled.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Javier breathes, voice wrecked in the ruins of his lust, and you know it’s destroying you, too.

All you can do is hold onto him, catching his gaze with your own, and the conflict there is almost enough to make you cry, needy in his hands as he presses a deft finger within you, chasing it with another that has you arching into his chest. Grinding into his hand as he works you over, driving you crazy, you can’t hold back your moans.

“Javi,” you mewl softly, begging for more with the soft scrape of your nails down the back of his head, catching at the nape of his neck and feeling the shiver that runs through him as his thumb falters in circling your clit, “ _bésame_.”

He doesn’t need convincing to brush his lips against yours once again, heated and sloppy with the devolution of your composure. His hands know you, perhaps better than you know yourself, and he’s drawing your climax against his tongue in moments.

You’re pushing down his jeans, just enough to free his cock between you in your haste to have him, and he finds his way home with the searching press of his hips and his hands spreading you further. He moans, gasped against your lips, and your body thrums with the feeling of his welcome press, splitting you as he stretches you just like you need him to.

Logically, you know it hasn’t been so long to be so desperate for it, for him, but logic flew out the window the second you first kissed Javier Peña all those weeks ago.

He’s got you all kinds of fucked up, and you hope he doesn’t realize it.

When he finds his way deep, flush against you and chest pressed into yours, suffocating in the most wonderful way, you hear him curse, “ _Puto_.”

His fingers have you by the hair, the other on your thigh, keeping you against him as he rocks up into you again, and the curve of his dick has you senseless. Out of your mind with the feeling of him inside you, hitting you deep with each slow drag of his hips, slowly picking up his pace, until you’re entirely putty in his hands, and he’s meeting each curve of your hips with a wrecked sound of his own.

You can’t last long, and you can’t look away from the way his brows have drawn together and the part of his lips as he fucks you into the wall like you were made for it. It hurts, just as much as it doesn’t, when your body seizes up in the throes of your oncoming orgasm, holding him tight to you until he thinks that he may never be able to escape you, even if he wanted to. Twists like a knife in your heart, because you know it’s almost over.

His name falls from your lips, before he swallows your moans in a kiss that’s messy and desperate in the midst of your end, and it takes a few more sloppy thrusts before he’s tensing under your hands and pulling to spill his own orgasm along your thigh. And, god, you just about fall, but he leverages his weight to prop the both of you up against the wall on shaky legs.

Words are lost on your tongue, but he finds them against the curve of your neck, “I don’t want this to be it.”

Your heart twists, sharp pains that take your breath away, but you hold steady and try to keep from crying in front of him, “I can’t keep doing this with you. It’s too hard.”

“What is?” he leans back, searching you for an answer he seems to sincerely not know.

“I can’t keep this,” you finally confess, gesturing tiredly between you, ”and feelings separate. I can’t keep fucking you, and not care about you.”

“Who says I don’t care about you?” he asks, dipping his head, and it only hurts worse.

“Javi,” you press at his chest, keeping him from kissing you again, “don’t say things you don’t mean. I’m not one of your informants.”

“If you really think that,” he breathes, and you think there’s a shake to his own voice, as he tugs his jeans back up and pushes back from the wall to pull his shirt and jacket from the floor, “then you really don’t know me at all.”

When he reaches the door, you ask, “Don’t I?”


End file.
